What is it, then? This moment. These not clean couches, the graffitied table before me, scattered with cigarette butts, cans of Heineken and 7up and Redubll and empty water bottles a snickers wrapper, some yellow paper, and playing cards. I love the table most for its playing cards.
I’m not entirely sure if cigarette butts fits honestly to their reality – when being handed the keys for our 16 dorm room, the high blonde girl who was my age or younger, told me, “ no smoking in the rooms in the lobbies, you can smoke weed, but not cigarettes.”
There’s three vending machines before me, with a red light bulb behind the glass and for the goods. I guess its somewhat like the red light district, the bulbs over glass signifying the “place where the whores live” to put it in the tongue of my sister, it sounds horrible to say – but it is, true.
On the TV the Olympians run, their legs look like gazelles. They are competing for the gold, they are competing to be the best. They are competing, to represent.
The way they pass the baton to the teammate in front of them, traces of the former still catching the speed of the first. It feels like my days on this trip, during travel, but maybe just, always. The days no longer feel like separate occasions. The days and weeks run together, moving and going and walking and seeing and feeling all divided by sleep in a new place every other night. Until when I wake it doesn’t even feel like a new day, it feels like life hardly pauses anymore; it just goes on and on and on and the baton is passed with the first opening of the eyes for the new day.
Jazz music plays while the TV is muted – it is loud and sounds like its from the 20’s. The jazz song, I realize, says, “cigarettes, I don’t smoke them as a rule, but I might have one, it might be fun with something cool” – uh pretty sure my romanticized 20’s jazz song has become some strange, jazz ode of weed. Maybe I misinterpret It is a tune like falling in love. It is a tune like holding hands for the first time. She sings about Paris in the fall. I’ve just come from Paris this morning – and it was, awful. I had pictured it exactly in the notes of this song. But maybe I should let this song be my Paris instead.
Me and Ashley, at some point in the low dip on the graph of this journey so far, discussed the idea that sometimes the reality is better than any ideal we could have pictured. Like, Budapest and Berlin.
I said how the beauty is that sometimes the reality is better than any idea we could have pictured. Like experiencing Budapest and Berlin. But as for the idea of what should be beautiful? It can be…not quite as the expectations were.
Here I am in Amsterdam. I have been so entirely looking forward to this place – for the craziness. Today we walked through the streets pass the coffee shops and the kids sitting outside and inside smoking. It is not quite strange, the unfamiliarity of it all, but, almost.